Leaving this factory, we began climbing steps. The monastery is the hollow of a rock, which rises abruptly from the sea, has cloisters, a veranda, a “terrace-walk,” a kind of collonade, and from innumerable points the most charming views. Longfellow had been there ahead of me, for which I “returned thanks” on finding in the guest-book his poem “Amalfi.” As I read it my eyes went wandering over all therein so felicitously described. The salon was the refectory of the monks, and each window, glazed to the floor, opened on a veranda. I shut myself out on one, and, leaning on its solid stone balustrade, gave myself up to the dreamy fascination of the “enchanted land.” Do read the poem, and try to picture each feature with your mind’s eye. The description is perfect. After lingering till the very last moment, we found our guide, and took another route to the albergo, where we had left our carriage.
Whether the descent to Avernus is easy or not depends upon the grade of descent. That was not many degrees removed from “sheer.” Believe me, it was not “easy.” It dropped us on the beach, and the “white-caps” gave us close chase here and there. Nothing to compare, though, to that of a battalion of little beggars who became so importunate, we had to turn our umbrellas into weapons of both defense and attack, whereupon they yelled and shouted with laughter. So we parted “merry foes,” if neither side could boast a triumph.
The earth never saw a more perfect morning than the following. That was to be our Paestum day. Our host, a number of countrymen and countrywomen, even the station porter who carried our lunch basket to a carriage on the train which was to take us part of the way—one and all exclaimed: “How fortunate you are! You could not have a more splendid day to see the ruins.” Fourteen miles by rail and then a carriage again for a drive of two and a half hours. The sea was “radiantly beautiful,” a wide expanse of flashing wavelets. Leaving it, the route crossed marshy plains, occasionally dotted with small herds of buffaloes and other cattle. The mountains kept along with us, gradually diminishing in height until they sank into the low coast. After awhile the first glimpse of the temples. That was a sensation! It is said of these temples that they were built in the ancient Greek style, and are, with the exception of those at Athens, the finest existing monuments of the kind. The temple of Neptune is the largest and most beautiful of the three. Its magnitude, massiveness and grandeur, added to the purpose for which it was erected—the worship of a deity—make it the most imposing ruin I have seen. This last makes the wide difference between it and the Coliseum, for which, had it that consecration, there would be no words. I wandered round, through it, gathered wild acanthus from crevices in its columns and clefts in its floor; gazed at the near sea at one end, passing an arm round one of its mighty symmetrical columns, not encircling it, you may be sure, as the diameter is seven and a half feet; followed the slow grazing of sheep on those once-sacred grounds; sat down on the broken and half-buried steps inside, and looked up at
the intense blue of Italy’s noon-day sky; went to different points around it to get every aspect of
“That noble wreck of ruinous perfection,”
and felt it impossible to sufficiently admire it. The Basilica near by is also of great magnitude, but less and not so majestic in its proportions. The third is the Temple of Ceres. It is comparatively small, but full of simple majesty. As I looked at these wonderful ruins, what most strangely moved me was an appreciation of the power and glory of man, and the recognition of what an element worship has been in the history of our race.